


Don't Touch Me (Ch. 1)

by benis



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: /fnafg/, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9601910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benis/pseuds/benis
Summary: This is the first chapter of a short story centered around a series of badly-made comics I've been drawing in MS Paint about Five Night's at Freddy's Purple Man, which I have been posting on 4chan for about a year and a half.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The things I drew](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/262469) by Me. 



Somewhere in the United States, somewhere on some grand interstate highway, beyond the egress of society and nestled between twin courts of wilderness both dense and sparse, the mind copes by drifting. Brief routes between home and work blend together into a greater expanse, and the result is an endless careen into a country few have ever realized is so devoid of life. It is at this exact moment, when consciousness has dimmed to its most base levels, that the road is vivisected, flowing into a labyrinth of wide bends and curt directions that slowly tapers into a single, serene flow. It is here, somewhere, that one may find themselves drifting into the small rural town known as Cherryvale.

Few people (if any) arrive in Cherryvale intentionally. There is no reason to arrive in Cherryvale and there is no reason to leave. Not a moment of time has passed in the last thirty years of Cherryvale's history, and much of exists in documentation rather than memory. Modest homes dot the road to and from Cherryvale's town center, which in turn plays residence to a library, a church, a school, an orphanage, a few bureaucratic offices and various markets, all of whom cater strictly to needs rather than wants. Each of these take the form of a primitive square or rectangle, made of common brick or cement, deprived of architectural experimentation or inspiration of any kind, thoroughly worn by age. To call the buildings of Cherryvale 'utilitarian' would be an insult to function, as even with these elementary designs the residents often find ways to blunder in whatever infinitesimal goals they have secured for themselves. Somewhere in the world, for each and every person, there is inspiration for success and the catalyst for a life well-lived. Yet while this hope lies in every person, it does not lie in every place, and there could be no better example of this lack of budding impetus than the little town of Cherryvale.

Major Michael Dugan was one denizen of Cherryvale. A (somewhat) decorated war veteran yet otherwise aimless, Michael settled his old soul in Cherryvale for the same reason many did; not to rear a family or pursue greatness, but to decide upon a peaceful, non-threatening place in which he may die. He has spent much of the meantime in the workplace, engaged in a listless tedium that nonetheless provides him with just enough money to maintain a complacent (but not comfortable) life, relishing the latter years of his life in lonely ataraxia. It was rare Michael fantasized of things; he fancied himself too old for it. But there were inevitable occasions where he did, and his mind sometimes drifted many years into hindsight. Familiar faces, tense moments, grave consequences and fleeting victories occasionally leaked into his present state of mind, serving as the foundation of a character deemed irrelevant yet respected in a more modern era. His memory grew foggier the more he aged, but it was this dusty legacy that remained fresh even after all these years. It, and his occupation, was enough to keep him content.

It was one of these recollections that distracted him from the gentle sway of his car; had the rumble of plaited asphalt not stolen back his attention, he probably would have caused serious damage to one of Cherryvale's meagerly-constructed housing complexes. Flinging his hands upon the upper reaches of his steering wheel, quick reflexes allowed Michael to divert his course off of the curb and almost out of the way of an empty garbage bin. Michael chuckled nervously, quickly dismissing the most exciting thing to happen to him in a decade as a barely-avoided accident as the garbage bin spun swiftly in the dust of the departing car. The errant twirl guided it into the bumper of a nearby white van, where the sound of metal upon metal rang grisly through the air, upward, and shot through a slightly ajar window. Inside, snuggled beneath a lint-laden and slightly fetid comforter, the clatter jolted something back into life. With a second sluggish movement and an irritated groan, the thing shifted, wrestling with lethargy beneath its blanket until a dull eye could peek out toward a nearby night stand. Red digital letters spelled out numbers: 1, 3, 5 and another 3. The eye blinked once or twice as to ensure it was reading correctly, and then groaned again.

The comforter flew forward, bundling into a ball at the edge of a thin, single-person bed frame. A hunched figure of a man rose, releasing an exasperated sigh as his feet gingerly met the dusty wooden floor below, pops and cracks leaving his body in a way not unlike the creaks that strained within the entrails of his mattress. If this man had any onlookers, they would surely note that his actions were routine; begrudging yet disciplined, done with a clear purpose that those with a salary would surely recognize. The only thing more obvious was his complete and utter contempt, though it wasn't clear what for. The noise that had awoken him and the act of rising from slumber were both equal suspects. Perhaps he simply didn't care for life itself.

Deprived of any good will or clothing, the man guided himself across the spacious yet desolate room, deliberately deprived of light thanks to dusty window blinds and long-expended light bulbs. Other than the occasional pizza box and (what he hoped was) mere suspicions of something scurrying in the dark, the trip across the room soon ended and yielded a reward: his bathroom. The man spared only a moment to glance into a nearby mirror before averting his gaze. His body was gangly, remarkably thin yet nonetheless tugged downward by age. Hints of physical activity had all but faded, and save for somewhat large hands and long legs, his physical form was insipid at best, pathetic at the worst. He didn't spare any attention to his face; long and sunken, gazing into his reflection was a practice he reserved solely for times of bitter introspection and inebriated digressions. He sent his mirrored self a trite, incredulous, facetious expression for the fun of it before his reflection disappeared behind a shower curtain, soon followed by a cascade of water that was far too cold. It was the season's gift to him.

He had developed this hasty routine for the sake of time, although he didn't need very much of it now; something loud had woken him eight minutes earlier than he intended, leaving him a total of eighteen to begin his day. He washed himself, washed his hair, dried his body, went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, inhaled a glass of rye, ironed his uniform, went to the bathroom, avoided eating, dressed himself, found his cigarettes and went to the bathroom with impeccable timing, retrieving a paper bag outside of his apartment door and kicking it inside before rushing down the stairs, dodging conversation with his landlord, trudging through grime-laden old snow and slipping into the driver's seat of a tarnished white van. Were it not for the vehicle's inability to start in the cold, he would have surely left not long after. He alleviated the problem by strangling the steering wheel, cursing at the dashboard and revving the engine, again and again, until the van finally rumbled to life. It crumbled a small wedge of ice and crawled onto the road, venturing deeper into the belly of Cherryvale.

Thankfully, Cherryvale's center was not a very densely-populated place. The drive proved trivial for the van even as barely-salted sleet caked the road, free of traffic, and it wasn't long before he approached the edge of town. Amid the crunching of the vehicle's dubious suspension and dulcet tones of an enraged man leaving an equally as decrepit cassette tape, the man's gaze soon fell upon a passing school. The school itself wasn't what held his attention, however; that honor was reserved for the herds of tiny figures leaving it. It was about the right time of day; classes had finished and the children were making their way home, some further along than others, many staying behind to mingle with one another or eat snow or some other stupid and banal activity. Their chatter was energized, saturated in the relief that the end of a school day brought, just loud enough to permeate into the van's window as it passed for a brief, agonizing moment.

Occasionally things grew dark, anywhere from dimmed to blackened. He didn't know why. It took some time for him to realize his brows were tightly knit and his knuckles had grown white gripping the steering wheel, allowing him to release both as his sight returned. Thankfully there were no school buses in the town of Cherryvale. There was nothing to collide with, which meant the few moments he spent deprived of sight didn't put anyone in danger. There were also no crosswalks, signs or street lights. Every child who attended Cherryvale's schooling system, it was argued, lived within walking distance of it, would prove indefinitely capable of returning home by foot and that spending such things would be better delegated to more important matters. It ensured a population that was as optimistic as it was perpetually-disadvantaged, happy to exist in living standards that the rest of the country deemed squalor so long as the distant future was guaranteed to be bright. Thoughts of town bureaucracy transitioned into thoughts of the day that awaited him returned as he approached his workplace. The familiar sign above read, as always, 'Freddy Fazbear's Diner & Pizzeria: Food & Fun for Everyone.'

The restaurant's parking lot was empty, which enabled the van to slyly drift behind it; it allowed him to secure an out-of-sight location typically reserved for delivery trucks and dumpsters. As the van's engine stumbled to a halt its driver stole a number of alert, attentive glances before exiting, pointedly trudging where footprints would surely fade in little time. It was cold. He regretted not wearing a jacket as the cool breeze swept through this shirt's buttons and through the thin undershirt below, causing his brittle form to shudder immediately. He hurriedly made his way aft of the restaurant and dug within his twill trousers, searching each pocket, until he retrieved a generous ring of keys. It only took one try for the backdoor’s lock to open, bathing him in a flush of warmly conditioned air and providing sanctuary from the cold. He silently mused at the irony of actually wanting to go into work.

He closed the door as quietly as he could and appraised his surroundings with yet another display of wariness. On some days he half expected to find a troupe of armed men waiting for him, eager to liberate him from his job by means of in a glorious wave of fantastic Hollywood violence. But nothing had changed. The employee lounge was as compact and distinctly uncomfortable as always, home only to vintage leather couches, a water cooler, a rubber house plant and the same garish interior design that patterned the rest of the restaurant's interior. He had long suspected that the room was designed this way to dissuade anyone from spending too much time in it, but it was hardly an inconvenience; he disfavored company, which made the lounge his home away from home so long as it remained sparse. Kicking sleet from the underside of his shoes, he adjusted his clothes as he hurriedly made his way from one end of the lounge to the other in a total of three steps. His hand gripped the doorknob and gently twisted it, avoiding a characteristic click and allowing him to push it open just slightly. A single, practiced eye peered out into the restaurant.

In spite of its corporate-approved tagline, Freddy Fazbear's was anything but admirable. The restaurant's design (and indeed, most of its management) cannibalized the diner that had existed some time before it, crudely adorning otherwise familiar interior segments with mascot posters, child artwork and garbage cans with the intent of obscuring what Fazbear Entertainment cryptically referred to as 'the past.' The interior, otherwise, was kept intact. The walls were still segmented into vomit-proof concrete and grimy polypropylene, the latter of which was covered in a hideous spattering of cyan, blue and violet geometric shapes. The floor itself was comprised of simple laminate squares, black and white, regularly mopped with a substance powerful enough to dissolve the child residue it was frequently smeared with. The restaurant itself was separated into several individual rooms, most of which were dedicated to private parties but ultimately designed to revolve around a central, public floor. This core location was decorated with colorful chairs, vast tables, party hats, balloons, decorative napkins, plastic cutlery, paper plates, posters, arcade machines, a ticket booth, a performance stage, a ball pit, shoe racks, token dispensers, curtains and eight-and-a-half foot tall bipedal robots. The overhead lights were kept at a hypnotizingly dim level, as to place emphasis on the stage spotlight and disguise curious stains that immense doses of bleach could not remove.

But these things were irrelevant. What really mattered was that the floor was empty. The children he passed had yet to arrive, and his co-workers were most likely hidden away in what few rooms were dedicated to employee use… except for one. Weaseling through the lounge archway, his feet rolled along the hard floor gently yet swiftly, surrendering only occasional moist squeaks as he snuck beside the central floor's vast walls. He always appreciated the restaurant the most when it was empty; the serenity of complete and utter silence masked the tacky decor and vague sense of grossness the restaurant imbued. Though he knew the dangers of social interaction lurked nearby, it was entirely possible he could scurry into his office and begin his shift without having to say a single word to anyone. This was a rare treat, but one he savored and restlessly pursued. The very thought of it made him anxious, his shoulders growing tense and his body very slightly quivering. Anyone who saw him would have surely found his posture, movements and positioning concerning, but it was a risk he was willing to take to secure solitude.

Courtesy of his chosen path, his ear was just close enough to each of the passing doors to hear any commotion behind them; the utter silence of the restaurant's heart made this even easier. As his eyes remained locked on to the far side of the diner, his other senses scouted for much closer vagaries. The first door yielded nothing; this was good. As he passed the second he listened, briefly, and deemed it lifeless. His luck was exceptional. The third fostered nothing, nor did the fourth. It was only around the fifth empty room that wonder began to encroach upon territory once reserved for relief, luring him into easing his pace. His focus remained set on finding life, only this time for entirely new reasons. The restaurant was mere minutes from its daily routine. His peers, the catalysts of this, were nowhere to be found. The only part of the restaurant's schedule that remained intact, other than his own arrival, was that everything seemed to have been tended to. Party favors were placed neatly on every visible table. Various surfaces, the ones non-appraising eyes would care to look over, were cleaned. Balloons were inflated. Game machines were blinking. An aroma of synthetic pizza teased the air. He humored the thought of getting the day off of work, allowing his attention to meander until he finally noticed the hulking figure staring down at him from less than a yard away.

His pace halted abruptly, frozen between coming and going. His heart beat so fast that he (and his counterpart, he suspected) could practically hear it. He struggled with an internalized discipline, resisting the urge to flee, struggling with his instincts like a frantic and desperate committee in a frenzied attempt to determine what would best keep him out of harm's way. He ceased blinking, unwilling to take his attention off of what waited before him, and his hands twitched in tortuous anticipation. These things occurred within the span of a second, after which his shock returned to mere apprehension, a quiet breath leaving him. The thing that he locked eyes with wasn't an employee; it was merely one of the restaurant's beloved mascot characters. In spite of their considerable size and mechanical composition they were harmless, roaming about the building as whatever commands they were issued became irrelevant in the absence of human company. This one, referred to as 'Chica,' was a fashioned to look like some sort of bird... although 'fashioned' was a generous term. Its creator seemed to believe that slightly covering heavy machinery with a lumpy plastic carapace, yellow felt and an oversized novelty bib would prove to be an effective facsimile of something more colorful and more convincingly alive. The characters of Freddy Fazbear's truly did represent the place they resided in.

Were it not for the errant attraction standing squarely in front of his office he would have surely slipped inside, avoiding contact with anyone for the remainder of the day. Yet the colorful colossus remained affixed where it was. He stared at Chica, and Chica stared back. Mildly irate by the inconvenience, suspicion began to cross his mind as he studied the thing standing so adamantly before him. The mascots were ugly, true, but they weren't standoffish. Simply staring at them was usually enough to trigger a specified reaction in their programming, prompting them to politely divert their course until they stood inches from the nearest wall, face-first, and provided it with one of several standard greetings. This one didn't seem to heed any internal commands. It didn't greet him. It merely regarded him, silently, with a pair of large, softball-sized eyes barely socketed in its immense skull. To call them similar to a doll's eyes would be a compliment; these were wider, unobscured by frills such as eyelashes or mascara, almost predatory in how firmly they locked on to organic life. A shark's eyes were his first impression, but even those had the decency to remain beady, hardly a mainstay of their overall appearance. Between Chica's size and features, even he couldn't help but wonder how children reacted to it without breaking down and crying. And she was just one of three robots that inhabited the restaurant, all constructed in the same image.

"Hey!" His shoulders ripped upward, jaw set and features melting in grief. That voice, the one that rang out behind him, was human, and what's worse was he recognized it. Heavy work boots fell hastily upon the hard floor below, their owner passing him entirely and stopping before Chica, gazing up at the animatronic as it gazed right back. The man's posture was proud and confident, suiting the wide and powerfully-set frame he carried. One would call it beach muscle, he thought, sporting a wide chest, large arms, bold shoulders and rippling back yet very little expansion in the midsection where strength truly lingered. This tapered down into a prominent, bubbled backside (which was impossible to ignore, as the man favored boiler suits several sizes too small) and ended with a pair of powerful, gladiatorial legs. The man's neck craned to face him, exposing a swarthy complexion and long, handsome features, and smiled. "I can't believe she got over here so fast... she was stuck in the kitchen a few minutes ago. I went to go get a dial caliper and she was gone." The man then looked back to Chica, and 'she' resumed staring forward vacantly as he ducked down, inspecting some intricate, uninteresting detail. The man's unwarranted affection for the piece of equipment displayed plainly before a veteran employee blurred the line between sycophant and savant.

It didn't matter; all that mattered was slipping away. The man crouching before him seemed to sense the desire to leave and, compelled by an ulterior force to make life even less tolerable, stood erect once again. Now he and Chica both blocked a convenient path into the office. There was no ignoring the man's pride now as he stood several inches overhead, almost twice the width of virtually every other person who entered the restaurant (and, possibly, the entire township of Cherryvale.) The only thing more obvious was the stark white nametag stitched to the breast of his utility suit, displaying the name 'Jeoff' in embellished mechanic's script. Jeoff's features, usually quite friendly, slowly became less so as he gazed downward, a casual smile slumping into a casual frown, eyes glazing with subtle but unmistakable contempt. Though he tried to hide it behind a kindly tone and casual language, it was obvious he looked down upon the man before him in more than just a literal sense. Anyone could discern the distaste he had for the thinner, older, less muscular, less handsome, less popular, less socially-gifted man before him, and it merely stoked the flames of antipathy that roared within the little man's confines. At the very least, the smaller of the two took some satisfaction in knowing that his bitterness, intense as it was, was never hidden or masked. It was worn openly on his cuff, providing a clear warning to those who would surely do him harm, such as Jeoff. It was clear Jeoff got the message. The mechanic would have to settle for hating him from afar, just like Chica.

"Before you go," Jeoff finally said, a mere moment after initiating his derisive glare, "I just wanted to let you know we're going to be getting new animatronics in the restaurant sometime next week. Jerry Fazzer himself designed them, and he'll be showing up with corporate to introduce them to the kids." Jeoff then turned back to Chica, his expression softening greatly as he patted its carapace. "This old girl and her friends will finally get retired after ten long years... it's hard to believe they lasted so long without something breaking in them, like that fourth one." Jeoff laughed good-naturedly and set his eyes back upon the nearest human, where his good nature drained away immediately. "I just wanted to know if you're going to be working Wednesday and Thursday of next week. I asked Michelle but she didn't have your work calendar on file." Before providing the opportunity to answer Jeoff continued, glancing away dismissively. "I could probably ask Rudy or Jeremy to help move them in, actually. I think Julie has been looking for overtime, too." Not satisfied with merely being passive-aggressive, it seemed Jeoff was also eager to insult him by implying physical labor was better accomplished by women (and Jeremy.) It was an easy shot, but not a decisive one. It was quickly decided it wouldn't be the last one fired.

As Jeoff continued to think out loud he was interrupted, finally, by a second voice. It was quiet, just slightly above a murmur, with a light delivery reminiscent of a tenor. Yet unlike a tenor it clearly had no intention of ever reaching high pitches, remaining an emotion-deprived, steadied monotone. It was easily-forgotten and easily-dismissed, not only because of its lack of range but because it arrived so gently, almost as though its bearer intended to put those within earshot at ease. It was placid, even pleasant, but cold. It was also interrupted by involuntarily pauses, typically as words began; a textbook stutter. "I'll do it," the voice said affirmatively, although his firmness was just slightly tainted by an initial hesitation. Jeoff seemed surprised. "Oh. Are you sure?" He replied, watching as the man crept past him. His posture was quite different from Jeoff's, sly and sinuous, gently bent as though he were always skulking around. It was frequently dismissed as a bad back. "Yes," the man said in return, simply, as he once again retrieved his sizable collection of keys. Perplexingly the panel-activated security doors required a traditional metal key to power on. "Those robots can be quite dangerous. We'll need to ensure they're safe before we let anyone smaller or weaker around them, such as... children." He avoided mentioning women directly. As the door came to life it shifted upward, disappearing into an archway. He offered Jeoff a well-feigned expression of deep concern. "Ever since the incident with Shelly."

Though the total response was peppered with characteristic stammering, the sudden look on Jeoff's face made it clear it had worked. Behind its sudden blankness was a thick layer of melancholy, steadily growing until it couldn't be kept out of sight. Hints of grief leaked upon Jeoff's features, echoing a single emotion toward onlookers: regret. To see despair sink into such an otherwise infallible-looking man was deeply satisfying, and it was unfortunate there was only so much time one could spend observing the change before a large metal door separated Jeoff from the man who had so decisively stabbed him. The mental image would suffice. After all, it wasn't the first time this sort of riposte was delivered and it wouldn't be the last. Jeoff, and so many others, meant absolutely nothing within the eyes of the restaurant's management. Any suffering he or others underwent was summarily documented and ignored, used only as grounds for termination should a single employee choose to complain too frequently or too factually.

With a broad smile and a victorious stretch, the man looked over the small expanse of the restaurant's security office. Tarnished, streaked chrome comprised everything, from the desk to the walls. The floor below matched the black and white tiling of the rest of the restaurant yet felt considerably thicker, as though it were reinforced against some unforeseen threat or the tiles themselves, despite their similar appearance, were constructed of an entirely different material. A long, large, thin finger pressed against the surface of the desk, gliding along silently before presenting itself to an appraising pair of eyes. It was cleaned yesterday, and the thin layer of residue the cleaning agent left had yet to be broken, proving it wasn't touched. Various papers stacked vertically along the desk were tested as well, revealing nothing was out of order. The desk drawers, rusted and nearly impossible to open, displayed no signs of recent wear; anyone who tried to open them without an understanding of their condition would have undoubtedly broken, scraped or bent something. A small metal fan sat upon the desk remained turned on, as it had been for as long as anyone could remember. Everything was exactly as it should be.

He spun the chair that accompanied the desk, testing it before settling down upon it. The seat was brisk to the touch thanks to thin fabric and thoroughly-worn foam squashed above the metal frame, ensuring it was virtually impossible to warm up. The discomfort kept security guards such as himself aware at all times, but it wasn't the most accommodating support for his back. He would worry about it later; he focused instead upon the small computerized screen before him, embedded in a metal casing that was held in place by an industrially-fashioned arm jettisoning from a wall mere inches behind the desk. He wasn't a mechanical expert and he wasn't eager to speak to one, and thus assumed that the office's construction was designed like a panic room to protect a complicated electronics system. The only flaw in this theory was that the screen was the only electronic device in the room; the office's reinforced construction couldn't have possibly served the various cameras littered throughout the restaurant's other locations, which the screen derived feedback from. His idle considerations were interrupted by a gentle drone that rose from the security device, power coursing through it. After the brief flash of a manufacturer's logo it blinked on, revealing a gray, fuzzy view of the restaurant's main floor. The device's silence and simplicity was reassuring, and the utter silence of the office only further put his nerves at ease.

The pinnacle of comfort, however, came in the form of schadenfreude. There was nothing quite as enjoyable as hiding within a snug metallic casing, utterly divorced from the rest of the world save for a camouflaged, nearly-imperceptible peek into it, watching as others suffered difficult, degrading tasks anyone with agency would do their very best to avoid. His means of surveillance came in the form of camera feeds; with the press of a button he was able to observe the various goings-on of the restaurant without having to tolerate its inhabitants, adult or child, man or machine, no matter where they lingered. Save for the lavatories and an occasional mechanical hiccup, he was able to monitor anyone he wanted whenever he wanted without having to provide the same courtesy to his subjects. It was a powerful feeling. He craved more of it. It was truly a tragedy that he was delegated to monitoring the restaurant in the dead of night when no one else was present, with days such as this proving to be aberrations in the standard schedule. If he did an excellent job monitoring the day's inhabitants, he thought, he might have a chance of usurping the role and leaving behind his graveyard shift.

Granted, his duties weren't very difficult. Anyone could perform his job. He knew this deep down, and he knew others believed so as well. But, he thought, that was the point of any job. There was no skill more important in the workforce than the ability to convince those around one's self that they couldn't perform a simple set of skills, creating demand for someone who could. He had yet to persuade everyone of his capability, but those with the power to replace him seemed to be fooled. This was good enough. He guided his mind back to the security panel, pressing a button repeatedly until he had a clear view of the restaurant's entrance. There, beyond the safety of a pair of locked glass doors, bobbed countless little heads shifting aimlessly among each other. Their mouths mimed a miasma of words without thought or meaning. They clamored outside the doors like a violent tide, permeating a hyperactive sense of anxiety and anticipation so dense it came dangerously close to ruining their observer's own internal sense of composure. Were the security panel in his hands not made of metal he likely would have accidentally crushed it.

Deeply offended, he took his frustrations out on the security panel's third button. His voice, ferociously incited by the sight of frolicking children, spoke coldly into the device's diaphragm to whoever lingered on the other side. "Would someone please open the front doors? We're five minutes past our scheduled opening time." He glanced at his wristwatch; it was only two. Nonetheless he stared at the panel for a few minutes, hunched over it like a miser, until he finally made out a familiar figure. Julie, a tawdry young lady with the demeanor of a strumpet and a pair of non-regulation khakis, lazily made her way from one side of the screen to the other. She stood before the door, gazing over the crowd of now-excited children, and turned away before speaking to some other unseen party. There was no point in trying to figure out whom. Whatever Julie said seemed to have sparked a new source of life in the restaurant, taking the form of a blaring, deeply-reverberated and, for a brief moment, heavily-dopplered rendition of Union of the Snake. It rang throughout the entire restaurant at an obnoxious volume; the only exception was the security office, where it struck the thick metal security doors and fell into a quiet, distant murmur. Eyes still squarely set upon the panel, he tuned out the song as he observed Julie fumbling with the door. It wasn't long before she was forced to quickly step aside, saving herself from a seemingly endless stampede of children who flushed into the restaurant's innards.

There probably wasn't a single kid in all of Cherryvale who had yet to visit Freddy Fazbear's, although this wasn't as impressive as it sounds; the town's overall population barely rose above a thousand people. From this roughly two or three hundred were children, most of whom arrived unsupervised with only a pittance of money. The restaurant earned its revenue from cheaply-produced concessions, game token sales and the occasional birthday party, which averaged somewhere close to a few dollars per head. The restaurant's other patrons (who were considerably more rare) consisted of teenagers, who pointedly separated themselves from the children by sneaking into a party room, watching music television and very rarely buying anything. The restaurant, to put it simply, banked very heavily on the continued patronage of a finite demographic, half of whom seldom bought anything and all of whom arrived simply because the town had nothing better to do. The business model didn't make sense, but as long as paychecks continued to be handed out there was no sense in questioning it. It certainly beat working for pennies on a farmstead or inhaling brain-melting fumes on an oil field, Cherryvale's only other real alternatives.

The familiarity the children had with Freddy Fazbear's was obvious. In spite of their zealous, hysterical excitement, they all took a moment of their time to hastily tug off their shoes and toss them in the direction of the complimentary holstering unit. Many greeted the employees on a first name basis (Julie especially, in the case of boys) in their frantic rush to exert whatever pent up energy they had accumulated over the course of a school day, leaping headfirst into flashing baubles or colorful attractions they had seen hundreds of times before. They knew there were rules, but there were lapses in obedience nonetheless. No one could ever expect such simple minds, especially rambunctious ones, to internalize a list of bland, distinctly un-fun regulations. That's why the other employees were present; they were, in essence, makeshift babysitters. It was their duty to maintain some vague semblance of order in the absolute chaos a crowd of children were sure to cause, helpfully guided by a voyeuristic eye eternally situated above them. Whenever a child stepped too far out of line a member of the floor staff was 'pinged,' charging them with the task of surveying the specified room and determining where the problem lingered. Virtually all cases, no matter how furious the rabble-rouser, were solved by a gentle reminder. Children in Cherryvale were taught to always listen to those older than them, as just about anyone was deemed fit to administer discipline.

The only exception to this was in the case of teenagers. Occupying an awkward position between obeying adult authorities and bearing the responsibilities maturity demanded, they often shuffled their feet and groaned when directed by staff, meandering out of trouble just long enough for attention to leave them before getting right back into it. Some employees chose to ignore them, allowing them their own little private space so long as they remained quiet. But teenagers were very rarely subtle, let alone intelligent, and there were times where things such as cigarettes or suggestive magazines found their way into a domain shared by children. It was only in these extreme circumstances that security was charged with handling the situation, the method of which varied greatly from guard to guard. The thing few guards understood, however, was that no teenager was likely to respect any authority under any circumstance, least of all the authority of a children’s' restaurant. There was no point in trying to discipline those who refused to listen. Thus, one certain member of security thought, it became far more beneficial to exploit them as readily as they exploited the restaurant. Those foolish enough to find themselves caught with contraband found it summarily confiscated, leading to a steady supply of casual narcotics and cheap liquor for whomever did the confiscating. Bans were issued, only to be lifted later via outside dealings and dubious favors. Those who didn't cooperate were never seen at the restaurant again, and those who did were allowed back inside with a better understanding of the art of duplicity. Rules may have been broken, but those who broke them were held by another system of accountability, the stakes of which were so high that it proved less dangerous to simply heed the written laws of Freddy Fazbear's.

Today's crowd was typical, full of broken rules and errant screaming all played alongside the blaring tune of top 40's music. Children occupied themselves with play, scuffling amidst one another for the rights to a game machine, a space in the ball pit or a piece of junk food. Employees typically observed from the sidelines, some hardened to the discord by years of experience, interfering when commanded but otherwise content with not having to engage in any effort. The restaurant once again filled with the stench that accompanied a vast crowd of children in one space, assaulting the nose as effectively as sound assaulted the ear. All of this was summarily monitored and judged by the cameras above, the bearer of whom relished his position away from it all. He surveyed each floor one at a time, switching from feed to feed at a modest pace, scanning the screen for miscreants. Every rule was broken constantly. The rules against running, screaming and yelling alone were perpetually shattered by every single patron under the age of thirteen. What truly mattered was determining which violations were too intense or obvious; the sort of activity that, if ignored, would convince others it was acceptable. Wandering employees often caught these crimes and interrupted them, but their vigilance simply wasn't as efficient as that of the man who watched the cameras. They lacked the judgment to maintain a sense of order. They didn't know children the way he did.

Hours passed like minutes from the comfort of the security office, interrupted only occasionally by administering orders to the floor staff. The children sullied every surface with every form of grime imaginable, the filth of which they blissfully wallowed in. The teenagers, who arrived slightly later in the day than the children, had carefully snuck into their private room of choice and secured the perimeter of a small television, watching synthetic artistry struggle to forge a trend. Jeoff occupied the robotic suiting room with Rudy, who coddled his pitiful weaknesses with sympathy. Charlotte managed a private party. Julie read a drug store novel at the front desk, barely hiding it. Two kids tried to open the panel of an arcade machine; Charlie was alerted and swiftly stopped them. Elenor spoke to the kitchen staff. The manager Michelle made her usual rounds. Everything was out of order, yet nothing was. The daily disarray of the restaurant continued unabated as its three mascots occupied the main stage, gesturing mechanically in place in an unconvincing attempt to sing the songs on the radio. A purple rabbit, a yellow bird and a brown bear, physically mirroring one another with only slight aesthetic differences. The mascots were largely ignored, but occasionally paused upon detecting the gaze of a child and offered a stiff, programmed wave. Their charm wore off quickly, soon fading into the rest of the diner's gaudy aesthetic. No one, however, was foolish enough to approach them, regardless of age. The most prominent rule at Freddy Fazbear's was ad verbum: Do not touch Freddy.

The logic behind this rule was simple. The mascots were made of countless moving parts, borderline industrial in their complexity, and anyone who touched them would likely lose an assortment of extremities or body parts. Freddy was mentioned by name due to the clear and evident fact that no one actually cared about Chica or Bonnie (that was the rabbit's name) enough to pay them any attention, let alone consider touching them; after all, it wasn't their name on the restaurant. The only exception to this no-touching rule was the engineering team, who obviously possessed the accreditations necessary to fiddle with whatever made the animatronics function. More importantly they also signed a collection of waivers, all of which explained in vast swaths of legal jargon that any injury or dismemberment caused on the premises were solely the fault of the afflicted rather than that of the Fazbear Entertainment Company. It was the same collection every employee signed prior to hiring.

While reminiscing about employee process the finger that toggled from camera to camera paused. Daydreaming couldn't distract an alert pair of eyes, who immediately spotted a small figure standing deathly still beside the main stage. The other little forms that raced across the screen never stopped for more than a brief moment, swarming endlessly like thickly-laid static; this particular specimen, on the other hand, despite being equally as obscured amid a hypnotizing blur of fluorescent lights and party decor, instead chose to remain in place, embracing a gentle calm utterly divorced from the commotion of the restaurant. Its back faced the camera, refusing to provide any insight into its demeanor or intentions, staring squarely at the colorful mechanisms performing their stage routine. There was no way to be sure this was what it was doing, however; it was more likely, knowing the restaurant's other patrons, it was simply biding its time until it felt an opportune moment to scream or defecate on the floor. Yet for now it seemed content, even happy, to marvel at the plastic creatures who played off the madness, strumming their false instruments in dutiful respect to the sinking vessel that was the diner. The beguiling peace was broken by reflexive senses; he felt someone on the other side of the security door. Surely enough it soon opened.

His attention was stolen by a second figure; one who disappeared from the monitor to invade what he believed to be his safe haven. This one was significantly larger than a child, taking the form of a thin-waisted, wide-hipped adult woman, respectably dressed, rivaling him in height and surpassing him in width. A pretty face found itself perpetually locked into a stern pout, cradled in a fringe of soft tousled hair and bearing a pair of pensive, discerning eyes. The only truly intimidating part about her, however, was the gleaming badge she wore upon her purple blouse sporting the term 'Manager.' This woman, Michelle, was the only person in the daily affairs of the restaurant who utterly surpassed him in terms of authority. As bitter as the thought of a woman lording over him was he internalized it, his posture meek and beaten whenever her focus set upon him. He did so presently, but not before pressing the third button upon his panel and amending his tone to be more polite. "Ch-Charlie... someone is dangerously close to touching the stage. Get her, please."

He set his glare back upon Michelle, carefully standing as Michelle did the same. She strode further into the room without a word, glancing at the desk momentarily. "New mug?" she asked, gesturing to the novelty coffee cup he had brought with him to work. This habit of finding new, unusual things to drink out of was the only part of him she ever seemed to remember. This one bore art courtesy of MDC, a distinctly anti-establishment musical group; it was strange they sold coffee mugs. "Yes," he mumbled, quietly. Having fulfilled her obligatory pleasantry, she spoke to him again in a confident, authoritative tone, her posture erect and simply superior to his own. "Next Wednesday we're going to be receiving a very important shipment. The animatronics on the stage right now will be retired to a museum and they'll be replaced with newer, more efficiently-designed models." She offered him a pristine dossier, the label of which simply read 'new models.' He shook his head slightly. Michelle retracted it. "I just wanted to let you know, I don't know if anyone has told you yet. I don't want it to be a shock when you come into work one night and find the robots have been completely changed." She then turned, preparing to leave as quickly as she arrived, utterly failing to notice his preparation to respond. "Keep up the good work." These cold, sardonic words were the last to leave her before the door closed again, swiftly leaving him in the cold, desolate metal cube.

Loneliness and frustration set in, the duration of which was brief and black. Once his conscious mental faculties returned he picked up his chair, swept the shattered remnants of his coffee mug under the desk and surveyed the monitor once again, gently adjusting what had been ruffled during his battle against impotence as he worked to calm down. There was just enough time to spy Charlie and the figure by the stage, the latter of whom he now confirmed was a little girl. She, unlike most of the children, seemed to be responding well to Charlie in spite of his characteristic rictus grin and eye patch, smiling gently and nodding every so often in response to whatever it was Charlie said. Though he couldn't make out the fine details of the girl it was obvious she was thin, almost worryingly so. She was also noticeably taller than the boys who inhabited the restaurant, dressed in a simple tunic that only further emphasized her willowy shape. Her eyes glimmered, large in relation to her other features, a small nose and equally as small mouth utterly dwarfed by a stare deep and exposing. These were all set within a face that tapered off into a small, delicate shape, forming the visage of a prepubescent creature who was as cute as she was eerie. Eventually Charlie left and the girl wandered off panel, an attentive finger following her with the press of a button.

It was a struggle to watch the restaurant and keep tabs upon the girl all at once, but apprehension kept him sharp. He juggled his menial duties with mental considerations as he watched her meander from room to room, observing her mundane adventure as he struggled to understand just what it was that tantalized him. Her appearance, he thought, was far too remarkable for him to have never noticed her before; she must have been new to the restaurant, possibly Cherryvale entirely. She didn't partake in the things other children did, such as running or rough-housing, instead vying to wander throughout the facility at a modest pace, evaluating everything and only partaking in a handful. Curiously, she strayed away from things that contained the most people. She disregarded the colorful maze of plastic tubes that hung above the ball pit, children rushing through it like violent bowel movements. She failed to partake in the experimental laser gun room, which discharged colorful strands of light and pandemonium as ready as it produced concussions and tearful escorts to the infirmary. She took momentary interest in the arcade machines, but shied away from it upon being informed by a nearby urchin that it required real world currency to play. All she did, during her tour of the restaurant, was observe as other children roared with activity. It was difficult to tell if she was enjoying any of it, though what glimpses he caught of her face hinted at a slight, growing sense of rejection.

It was only when she ceased her wandering that he realized just why he had become so fascinated by the girl. Roughly an hour after she began her expedition she had once again arrived back at the stage precisely where she was originally expelled, resuming her observations. Everything clicked into place. Her tour of the restaurant was nothing more than a calculated routine to dissuade detection and lull those on the ground floor back into their usual display of apathy, providing her with a renewed opportunity to break the sense of order the restaurant relied upon. She was a troublemaker, and he had detected it before Charlie or any other employee had done so. It was precisely why he was put in his current position. They didn't know children the way he did, and this little girl was proof.

The girl glanced around subtly (or as subtly as a girl with eyes her size possibly could.) The other children ignored her as they had done during her entire visit, and no members of staff were actively monitoring the stage at the present time. It wasn't unlikely at all she had been waiting for this opportunity; for a moment when, in her mind, no one with authority could possibly catch her. She waited for several minutes, cool as could be, waiting yet not appearing to wait, her expression the only tell in her demeanor that could have possibly betrayed the desire to defy the law. He waited as well, staring directly at her image on the security panel. The world was oblivious to the tension between them; one was about to perpetrate an unthinkable act, and another was going to stop it before it happened. He felt like a hero, seeing through her angelic appearance to find nothing more than another brat, as foolish and eager to abuse the restaurant as the others. This was all but confirmed as she suddenly reached out, arm parallel to the stage floor, pressing a palm against Bonnie's stationary toe.

With a victorious smirk, a voice stammered into the security panel. "Charlie. That girl, she's at the stage floor again." He waited for further satisfaction to arrive upon the monitor, glaring down at the girl's hand as she continued to test whatever repugnant material covered the animatronic's paw. It was a long pause; one that didn't yield any changes. Malice soon curdled into umbrage as he pressed the communication button just a bit harder, his voice growing too in harshness. "Charlie," he hissed, the name prolonged just long enough to bloat it with distinct, unerring dislike. Wherever Charlie was, he wasn't present on the monitor. There was nobody to enact the man's will in his stead, and for a brief moment the sense of power the room provided him with had drained away. Even more distressingly, the girl continued to get away with what she was doing, spotted by neither child nor adult, molesting the animatronic rabbit's foot as though it were a crystal ball. He felt his brows twitch, soon peeling together as his jaw set. His teeth grinded against one another. The panel, again, was rescued from total destruction by its industrial composition. His heart beat faster, his vision panged and every muscle in his body palpitated, twitching. The blatant disregard for the order he had set in the restaurant's confines, and watching it go unabated for more than a few seconds, was enough to sear away all sense of trepidation in the man. Once again the entire world had ignored him. He sprung upward from the chair, throwing his foot into the door's panel with enough force to concave a human skull and rushed outward, long legs swiftly carrying him through the hall closest to his office.

A thin, whining tinnitus ran through his head as he swept through the restaurant. A cloak of tension followed him wherever he went, causing any children in his path to pause and timidly shuffle aside, no matter how excited they had been before. He didn't care. His anger, flaring rapidly, was clouding his senses to the point where he simply didn't hear or see anything but visions of a young girl turned into a pulpy, weeping mass. He soon arrived in the restaurant's central hall, and not long after the most prominent sound within it was the sound of his soles meeting the tiled floor. The little girl's eyes soon fell upon him, snapping open wider as she stared upward. She didn't even have the agency to lift her palm from the animatronic. She was a deer in headlights, and he was fuming. So fuming, in fact, that it took Michelle several cries and a tug on his arm to tear his attention away from the gently trembling girl before him. He glared at the manager and she glared back. The premonitions of an eviscerated young girl were quickly replaced with premonitions of an eviscerated Michelle, not just in the silently enraged man but in the mind of every observer. It brought more than one child to tears.

Michelle, seemingly unphased, said something angrily. He didn't hear exactly what it was; it took some time for his anger to simmer down, once again gracing him with a sense of hearing. It was only then that he realized whomever was in charge of the restaurant-wide radio system had turned it off. The culprit seemed to be Julie; Michelle wouldn't have gestured at her with such blatant irritation if she hadn't. The heat of the moment was somewhat smothered by the resurrected chorus of West End Girls, though as it returned once he recognized how silent he had rendered the diner. "What are you doing?" Michelle hissed out, her posture fired toward him in anger. He didn't answer, though he wasn't given any time to. Neither he nor Michelle seemed likely to back down, and it was obvious who would earn the staff's protection. Jeoff alone glared at the man from afar, demonstrating clear preparations to intervene and pulverize him should anything happen. Michelle continued in a hushed tone. "You just... stampeded through a birthday party, cursing and tracking cake all over the floor, and talking about how you're going to..." He glanced down, ignoring the rest of her lengthy recollection. He did in fact have a distinct layer of destroyed buttermilk icing lining his gray trouser legs, as well as his dark shoes. "Who is this? What's your problem?" She glared just a bit harder. "Answer me."

He didn't answer her, despite the opportunity. Though his expression didn't suggest it, he was preoccupied with a slight murmur that teased his thoughts, playing audience to all sorts of questions concerning Michelle and the numerous ways her life could be ended. It was, after all, the most sensible option; he was exposed and vulnerable. It was fair.

"He's my dad." A little voice, surprisingly brave given the circumstances, left the little girl... or it seemed to, as she had obscured her mouth, nose and chin behind a pair of striped wrist warmers. The man and Michelle looked down at the her simultaneously, clearly waiting for further explanation, which prompted the girl to continue. "I was going to touch Bonnie. He wanted to stop me... because it's against the rules." The little girl glanced some distance away to Charlie, who immediately rewarded her knowledge with a delighted smile and thumbs-up. Michelle calmed down considerably at this revelation, sighing heavily. Nearby children waiting for something exciting found themselves disappointed, groaning in grief or whispering hurriedly among each other as they dispersed. The girl watched Michelle silently, waiting to see if her fib had worked, before the grown woman spoke again. "Fine," she said simply, rubbing her anguished face with a hand. "Alright... fine. Charlie was in the bathroom. I get it. He wasn't here to stop her, so you..." The girl chimed in again. "Came to get me." Her supposed father glanced between the two all the while, brow knit in confusion. He wasn't sure if he was ignored or rescued.

Guiding her bangs away with a hand, Michelle crouched before the little girl and wiped any hints of harsh detachment from her face. She looked friendly and warm now; the least common of all her known expressions. "I'm sorry I yelled at your father. I was scared too." The little girl's hands lowered, returning the warm expression with a slight smile of her own. "What about the cake?" This reminder cut Michelle's smile short, prompting her to stand and glance around. Jeremy, an ordinary young man with the physique of a skeleton, caught Michelle's eye and she gestured him forward. It wouldn't take long before he hurried to the group. "Ask the kitchen to get Timmy another cake." She then glanced at Charlie. He, too, approached with absolute diligence. "Explain to Party Room D. why curse words are bad." The pair of men vanished into separate corridors and Michelle rose, resuming her casual glare as she regarded the young girl's father. She didn't say anything, but she appear angry. She merely walked into the distance, resuming her managerial duties and leaving the little girl and the defused man together.

As the man watched Michelle's too-large backside disappear into a crowd of partygoers he mumbled down to the child beside him. "Why did you...?" His question was cut short, interrupted by the sight of absolutely no one. His attention rose, scanning the crowd for evidence of where the girl might have gone, but failed to spot her. Everything had returned to normal; it was a restaurant free of strange little girls. He did his best to disguise an overwhelming sense of befuddlement, struggling to find something to do with his hands before simply stuffing them into his pant pockets. Clearly she had been scared off, hopefully ensuring one minute source of trouble would never return. Taking a moment of his time to rest, his thoughts returned to his duties as he watched the stage. Bonnie, a large robotic rabbit and the former target of the child, was watching him as well. It didn't seem to recognize the other two robots had continued their routine, causing it to stand out eerily. It had a wide stare identical to Chica's, and its superior height on the stage added an even greater sense of subdued hostility to the two lifeless eyeballs. It was just enough to convince him to leave, shuffling back in the direction of the security office.

For his own sake he decided to stay quiet for the few remaining hours of duty he was charged with. The various children of the restaurant seemed to have dismissed the incident from their minds, their usual mayhem unstifled and unabated, lacking fear of authority. Michelle had vanished from the camera feeds, which meant she took residence in the employee lounge, the bathrooms or somewhere out of the restaurant entirely. A few employees had vanished as well, save for members of the floor team who were almost universally required to stand watch; they did so without hitch even when deprived of an alert voice in their ear, gently reminding those who stepped out of line to behave themselves. It during this lull in activity that the man watching the cameras began to think. Rather than allow his mind to wander, he instead focused on potential repercussions. Typical of those who understood they had done something wrong, he observed his situation every way he could, considering potential outlets and how he could best protect himself from the vast array of consequences he would surely sample. Fear of consequences turned to growing anticipation, quickly transitioning from something he dreaded to something he feverously welcomed.

The restaurant had another strict guideline: all patrons had to leave the establishment before dark. There were a number of reasons for this, the most prominent being very few children would have the opportunity to stay so long before being retrieved or called home by their families. Rather than task employees with such a large timeframe of potential caretaking responsibilities, setting a uniform curfew ensured the building could be reliably emptied of children, absolving those on duty of the possibility of working superfluous, uneventful hours. This decision, like most, was made with no regard to potential revenue or innovative ideas; in the minds of those in charge, it was far more frugal to eliminate any hopes of overtime and enjoy a less swollen electric bill. The curfew was preceded by a sudden halt in the radio system, abruptly cutting off the booming music that saturated the building. The speakers' sounds were instead filled by a pre-recorded voice, slightly distorted and belonging to a young woman who had been fired or transferred to a sister location centuries ago. "Attention valued patrons," it announced in a bubblegum tone, "Freddy Fazbear's will be closing in approximately fifteen minutes! Please gather all personal belongings and prepare for departure." What followed then was a less-than-succinct list of policies and legal jargon that few people, least of all the woman reciting it, seemed to have any interest in comprehending. The only party with less investment in the warnings were the children themselves who, accustomed to the restaurant's habits, reacted to the very first word like one of Pavlov's dogs.

Despite having exerted themselves for close to three hours the children rushed with boundless energy back to the shoe-racks and coat hangers, retrieving whatever backpacks, coats, boots, sneakers and other implements they had initially arrived with. The glass entryway remained open as they flooded out, crushing old snow beneath tiny heels as they shared juvenile indulgence, teasing and bidding each other farewell before dispersing down the edges of beaten county roads. Some of the more enthusiastic employees took the time to bid farewell to whomever cared; others hid where they could, taking an early break before the next phase of their duties had begun. But everyone, including the man who watched the cameras, breathed a heavy sigh as the restaurant heaved its more hyperactive inhabitants. For some it was a sigh of satisfaction; for everyone it was a sigh of relief.

Leaning back in his chair, the man skittishly phased through the security panel's various feeds, noting pieces of trash, discarded food and the occasional errant article of clothing that littered the desolate diner. It wasn't the litter itself that bothered him. The restaurant's staff (other than himself) would tend to it shortly, and he fostered far worse conditions in his own home. What bothered him was what would surely follow. The restaurant's dim lights, now even less hospitable thanks to the vanishing daylight, was the perfect place abominable beings to lurk, putting him in considerable danger the longer he was forced to remain. And, unfortunately, he was forced to remain for another three hours. His shift dictated it. Were he not so eager to combat whatever found its way to him he would have surely fled with the others, but a deep-seated denigration of his own life and a quixotic bloodlust kept him seated firmly where he was, observing the staff clean the restaurant and chat silently among themselves upon the color-deprived monitor. It was only a matter of time before they left him alone in the building, allowing him the opportunity to once again gamble his own life courtesy of his security duties.

The last to leave was Jeoff, as always. Though the feed to the suiting room typically flickered out around this hour, it didn't take much thought to figure out he spent his time maintaining or repairing the animatronics, doing so in only a few minutes thanks to his expertise. A pair of eyes watched as the herculean employee exited the mechanical den and strode across the central hall, disappearing into the employee lounge. His departure was punctuated some time later by the distant clap of a door closing, and with it the restaurant became deathly silent. No one, save for a single member of security, was left to tolerate Freddy Fazbear's. It was the perfect time for his worst fears to strike, and they had three hours to do it. The notion that something lurked within the restaurant, poised to attack him when he least expected it, was the morbid highlight of his day. Years spent seated in the same chair watching the same monitor had filled his mind with fantasy, entertaining thoughts of suffering through a bout of vicious struggle. Something, some day, would surely ambush him in spectacular combat, eager to take his life as he righteously defended himself with all his might. Then, at the end of his bout with whatever it was, he would stumble under the weight of his grievous injury; victorious, but fallen. He would forge a bloody path as his entrails struggled to keep him alive, breath heavy, his battered body bathed in an illustrious glow. He would be graced with an honor few men could secure; the right to die in combat, slain over the corpse of that which had killed him. The fantasy made him giddy.

He waited eagerly for his assailant, his thumb growing raw with the frequency he monitored the camera's various feeds. Save for the persistent whine of his surveillance system, the restaurant remained quiet. Everything remained exactly where it was placed prior to the staff's departure. He shifted frequently in his chair, leg bouncing, expression frozen, a spare thumb and index finger cradling his chin. His readiness for excitement took a spouse in desperation. He gave somewhat-serious consideration to leaving the office, lurking about the restaurant himself in search of something to apprehend. Impatience became just as strangling as anxiety. He became consciously aware of the degree of dryness his lips gradually obtained, and the rate in which he was breathing. He shoulders locked, only drawing notice once they had grown sore from remaining tense for so long. He swept his hair regularly, tousling it like a model or a madman in a futile attempt to maintain his composure. There are only so many ways to describe a man sitting in a chair for three hours as nothing happens, and this was it. This was an encapsulation of his duties: waiting and alone.

He jolted, startled as the beeping of his watch woke him from a spirited trance. Eleven o'clock; the hour that ordinarily began his workday. Bitter resentment stained his features as he rose from the chair, stretching with careful consideration of his crooked back. Save for his own inability to remain calm under pressure, the day shift proved just as uneventful as the night shift. The disappointment he suffered was almost heavy enough to throw him back down upon the chair; or, better yet, prompt him to throw the chair himself. With the press of a panel the security door rose, allowing him to scrape his feet back to the employee lounge. He brought nothing with him, nor was there anything to take. He made his way from the security office to the restaurant's parking lot in less than a minute, stepping boldly into the unrelentingly cold wind that swept through all of Cherryvale. It was rare moments like these where his torrid core cooled, steadily, until there was no life left. Motility of the mind and body slowed to a mechanical, unconscious rate. To call it discomfort would be a misnomer; the sensation was self-assuring, like narcissism, and just as addictive. It was the onset of deterioration; spalling of the spirit, like water on sandstone. He would have to find a way to stave it off once again.

Set beside his burnished van, he lazily fumbled with the keys in his pocket. It was only when he stuck the key inside that he heard a noise opposite of him, somewhere behind the vehicle. He paused. Practiced ears told him that something larger than an animal was lingering on the opposite side. Not quite tall enough to peek over the roof of the vehicle, he instead planted his feet firmly and leaned to the side, peering past the hood silently. There was nothing there. Eager to stave off further disappointment he circled around the van as silently as one could in snow, his posture gathered dynamically, assuming a learned technique to better suit his prowl. Something large was clearly trying to find him; he could vaguely make it out through the windshield, lingering behind the van's rear-most windows. Spotting his aggressor, he hurriedly snuck around the broad side of the vehicle, appropriated his posture, startled for his opponent and was slapped in the face, slipping on ice and landing in a pile of snow.

The force behind the hand, or whatever had hit him, was dazing, not unlike being hit by a bear. It took him a moment to shake off his dizziness, looking up at the culprit. What stood before him was a remarkably tall creature, shaped like a woman yet broad like a refrigerator. Although everyone in the restaurant seemed to be taller than him he recognized the figure as Rudy; a woman who, quite simply, was incredibly out of place at this hour. "Shit," she bemoaned in a voice surprisingly soft for someone of her size. "Sorry. I didn't know who owned this... weird, creepy van." Offered a choice between a hand and struggling in the ice, he accepted the former. He was yanked to his feet with minimal effort, dusted off by hands just slightly too powerful for a lady.

Once Rudy had amended her mistake she surveyed him, as was her habit. Her gaze was serious, not terribly unlike Michelle, and equally as appraising. For this sole reason he decided he disliked her, even if other facets of her rough personality proved likable at times (or as likable as someone equally as surly could be.) She spoke again. "Do you really work this late? Jeoff said he talked to you in the restaurant at about three." He focused on dusting snow off of himself, praying Rudy's enormous paws wouldn't try to help as he responded shakily. "Yes... I worked the day shift today." It was all he decided to share, soon deciding to forsake the notion of being clean until he returned home. He had several outfits identical to this one, sullying one pair with asphalt-stained snow wasn't a convincing reason for concern. He looked to Rudy, who had become distracted by surveying the parking lot, and spoke to her once again. "What are you doing here?"

Rudy wasn't a nervous person. She was, however, nervous this time; he recognized it as the sort of attitude that accompanied feeling exposed or found out. "Oh," she began, "I'm here to... " Rudy digressed as the sound of another car approached the parking lot. A modern sedan of some foreign make parked itself close by, allowing a driver no older than twenty to step out. Though the young man offered Rudy a smile and a wave, the gestures quickly dissipated as she hushed him with her own larger body language. She wasn't subtle, waving him down as if to shoo him from the premises entirely as he failed to take the hint. It was allowed to continue; her floundering provided a few brief moments of joy and brightened an otherwise unpleasant day. Rudy looked back to the older, snow-covered man and frowned unhappily. "Look," she began in an atoning tone. "That guy over there is a new employee. Michelle asked me to meet him here and train him." She frowned just a bit harder. "He's the new night guy."

The gravity of what she said didn't set in immediately. His blankness seemed to convince Rudy that he was in shock, prompting her to continue as though it would somehow heal him. "I don't think they're replacing you. We were going to hire a second night guy anyway. You work six days a week. You had to see this coming." He shook his head, glancing at the distant would-be employee who awkwardly observed the pair from across the parking lot. "It's fine." Rudy, prepared to provide further sympathy, found herself at a loss for words. It was obvious that the man, who was surely being pruned for his habit of angry outbursts, was expected to display further aggression. Turning, he circled the van once again and opened the driver's side door with just enough effort to convey a subdued, internal rage. Sparing Rudy no further words, he cranked the ignition of the van and brought it to a swift start, almost as though the vehicle itself recognized he would spare no more patience. Rudy's form to sheepishly stepped aside, allowing the rumbling vehicle to back out of its enclave and peel onto the main road. Loud music leaked from the windows. It was good to feel something again.

Some hours later he found himself back in his apartment. A man knocked upon his door, bearing food, and was ushered away with a twenty dollar bill. The paper bag that sat beside his door contained bundles of these bills, which he summarily tossed into a refrigerator alongside numerous other satchels. The appliance had no other uses; he and the delivery man were well-acquainted. Setting the box upon a griseous kitchen counter, he made his way to the nearby mattress and fell upon it. His back protested like a wretched bedmate, indignantly threatening to lock up, but he didn't listen. Reaching into the shady confines beside the bed, his hand excavated the area until he found a dusty glass bottle containing an amber liquid and a thin, red substance pickled at the very bottom, both of which he prayed were alcoholic. A hearty sample confirmed the suspicion, and two more had caused the bottle to vanish entirely. It was all he needed to obtain enough courage to begin celebrating.

Gazing up at the ceiling, his adventurous hand found its way to a telephone situated neatly on the bed's end table. With the handset to his ear, a spindly finger rattled the dials until he heard a distant ringing, waiting patiently as his eyes grew bleary thanks to his recent consumption. A woman's voice, not dissimilar to one he had heard some hours ago, greeted him brightly. "Thank you for contacting Fazbear Entertainment, the home of food and fun for everyone. For customer service, please press..." He didn't give the automated device the chance to speak. Obscured by muddied visions, he relied on his motor skills, habitually pressing a sixteen digit numerical sequence into the telephone dial before resuming his staring contest with the ceiling. The ceiling began to stare back, and soon enough the receiver in his ear emitted three distinct, unfriendly tones. There was silence afterwards.

"It's me," he began, speaking lazily. He did his best to disguise the slur in his voice, but before long he began to doubt whether he was saying anything at all. "I hear you've found someone new for the night shift." A smile eased into a grin as the ceiling grew just a bit closer, reaching down toward him. He laughed as it tickled him. "I was beginning to think you would never get rid of me." It was then that he sprung from the bed, phone trailing the floor's filthy expanse as he paced. "I had some trouble today... just so you know. I didn't hurt anyone. Nothing was broken." He paused, considering his next words. "They... think I have a daughter now." He flirted with the phone, treating his explanation like a game. Small dots, like tears in upholstery, followed him as he found himself at the other side of the room. He remembered them from the early morning. "I was pretty sure that this job would stick around forever," he cooed, digging into a cupboard. Another bottle, less dusty and more full, graced his hands as he held the phone's receiver with a shoulder blade. "But I guess all good things have to end eventually."

Sampling the bottle, he bravely cast his gaze across the room. The dark provided a suitable canvas, etching his surroundings with belligerent prowls and burst faces. It didn't scare him. He was too old to be put off by pinprick eyes or mangled teeth leering at him in his own home. He smiled graciously at his audience of ghouls and panthers, yet he didn't dare to move any closer. He didn't want to risk finding their curator. He instead focused his attention back upon the phone, glancing toward it like a misbehaved child. "But if you would prefer we keep this going just a little longer, I'd appreciate it. I won't do what I do if there's nobody to admire it." Turning on a heel, he guided his feet once again to the bathroom, using his free hands to open the door. Inside, on the tile below, laid a small figure, bound by rope like a cut of meat. Unlike the other residents this figure didn't move, instead lying still as he gazed down at it. It wasn't quite who he was looking for, but it would do for now.

"Oh... if you do decide to keep me," he continued, drawing himself back across the room. Digging in the shelves, he retrieved a discarded hunting knife and a meat cleaver, testing both with a finger. The knife was sharp, but the cleaver was dull. He hoped the weight would compensate. His undulating march back to the bathroom was free of company as skirmishing shadows immediately whisked a wide berth around him, pointedly avoiding his radiating anger as they fearfully scrambled back into obscurity. The feeling of power was gratifying. Crouching before the figure on the ground, he gently lifted the skirt it wore with the tip of the knife, peering at what lurked below. He didn't know the Fazbear Entertainment sold childrens' undergarments until now. It, as much as the rest of this, was amusing.

"I'd like to work the day shift."


End file.
